


Memoriae

by Synchron



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Family Bonding, Gen, Reminiscing, dadgil week!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 07:37:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: Nero takes his father to meet someone important.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 192





	Memoriae

**Author's Note:**

> hhgghghhooohhh I admit I'm a little reluctant to post this because I feel like it doesn't really belong in Dadgil Week? Feels more like a general fic than anything else, but I'm gonna stick to my guns (and my schedule) and post it now, so I can get to working on other things. 😭😭
> 
> I hope that regardless of the mishmash of themes, it's enjoyable anyway?!?! Thank you so much for reading, everynyan! ❤️❤️

He didn't really notice it when he was younger, when he would spend his days idly listening to the drawling prayers towards a god he only half believed in, desperately wishing for the sermon to end so he could finally blow the damn joint. The seconds that ticked by honestly felt more like days, syncing up with his static, droning heartbeat. His sword training with Credo and downtime spent with Kyrie were really the only things he could say he looked forward to in any capacity, adding splashes of vibrant colour to what he'd come to accept would be his drab life from then on. Times were so much simpler then, even if slow and plodding, free of responsibility and accountability. But as the seconds tick by and become days and weeks and months and years, the more on his plate, the heavier the weight on his shoulders, the faster that time seems to go by. And no matter what he does, no matter how strong he becomes, the passage of time is something that no individual, no relic, no force on this world, can alter the flow of.  
  
(Dante claims he has that exact ability, but Nero calls bullshit on that.)   
  
Just like that, in the blink of an eye, one more thrum of his heart, another year has gone by. How many years has it been since _ that day _ now? This is the seventh. But the funny thing about time is that even though it rolls on, bringing erosion and decay with ruthless efficiency, hurt never really goes away. Mourning never really ends. The intensity may dull, but it always ebbs and flows - an inevitable tide pulled forth by the moon.   
  
"Will you be going soon?" Kyrie asks from the doorway, peering into the garage where Nero waits. He's pacing back and forth rather nervously, unsure as to why he's feeling his stomach flip and tumble and turn. His plans for the day aren't any different than they would be on any other year, and yet he wrings his hands as if he's awaiting bad news. That isn't like him at all.   
  
"Yeah. Soon." He forces himself to come to a stop. Maybe it's his constant pacing that's churning the butterflies in his gut?   
  
The sound of Kyrie quietly padding down the stairs to enter the garage has him turning towards her, his cheek meeting with the softness of her palm as he whirls around. Her other hand rises to his other cheek, and Nero suddenly finds himself staring into the warm honey of her eyes. It helps to soothe his nerves a little.   
  
"He won't reject you." She's so gentle when she says that, lips pulling upwards into that familiar, reassuring smile.   
  
"That isn't what I'm--"   
  
" _ He won't reject you _ ," she repeats with a little more edge to her voice, silencing any more of Nero's objections. Kyrie's always been so good at reading his moods, even the ones he doesn't want to articulate… perhaps _ especially _ those. Nero lifts a hand to cover one of hers, trying to mirror her smile, but it always falls a little short - he's the strongest he's ever been, yet he can never seem to match the sheer depth of her genteel heart. He loves that so much about her.   
  
"Oops." Dante's voice from just beyond the garage shatters the fleeting moment of intimacy between the couple, expression more cheeky than embarrassed. Nero would bet all of his life savings (though granted, there isn't much) that Dante probably doesn't even know what that word means. "Are we interrupting?"   
  
"No." Nero is quick to step back from Kyrie, but his hand stays over hers, grasping it as if it will give him strength. Because falling right into step by his brother, if not a little awkwardly, comes Vergil, his quiet and impassive father. At his side, he can feel Kyrie squeeze his hand in return, stepping forward to gently nudge at him with her shoulder before she tugs her own hand away, making Nero lament the loss of assurance near immediately.   
  
Knowing this, she clasps her hands together before Nero has the chance to grab at her again. "Do you have a minute, Dante? I've been meaning to rearrange the store room for some time now."   
  
"Hmm?" Dante angles his head in thought, finding it odd that he'd be the first she'd come to over something like this when Nero literally lives here, and to that end, his eyes dart, clearly confused, between the two for a time. The look that Kyrie is giving him toes the precarious line between pleading and straight up murderous, so in the interest of living a long and healthy life, he offers up an easy smile, making a show of tugging the sleeves of his coat even further up his arms as he crosses the garage. "For you? I got as many minutes as you need. I'll hit that store room like a damn hurricane."   
  
Although hopefully he doesn't mean that literally.   
  
Vergil watches with a suspicious squint in his eye as Dante ascends the stairs with a laughing Kyrie. He's no fool either - something is _ definitely _ afoot. But just as he begins to ponder what those two could possibly be up to, Nero catches his attention by roughly clearing his throat, and so Vergil pivots to regard his son with the quietly curious reputation he's unwittingly cultivated.   
  
"Are you uh… busy?" Nero isn't usually one to be so bashful, but all of a sudden, maintaining eye contact becomes difficult. "There's someone I kinda want you to meet. It's something I've been wanting to do for a while, but…" Whatever he was intending to say slips away from him, but Nero makes no attempt to salvage the lost words, merely shaking his head to dismiss the thoughts and then drawing in a breath. With newly formed resolve, he finally meets his father's eyes. "You up for it?"   
  
"Of course." Comes Vergil's response, the words teeming with far more confidence than he actually feels. His eyes flicker past Nero, to the door leading into the orphanage, suddenly missing the presence of his brother - Dante always manages to soothe any tensions between father and son with an effortless ease, and though Vergil is often cursing his brother's existence (though not in any malicious way), he finds he sure could use it now.   
  
"Alright. Cool." Well, that's one hurdle that's been cleared at least. Nero dusts his hands, even though he hadn't touched anything to justify the action - he merely wanted a physical outlet for his nerves. "We should probably head out then. Got a bit of a walk ahead of us."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The two walk mostly in silence through Fortuna. Vergil had of course asked where they were going, who they were going to meet, but Nero seemed adamant in keeping it a secret, dismissing his father's questions with the ever vague 'you'll see'. Even with the context clues in hand - a box of… cleaning supplies(?) bundled up in Nero's arms, and a bouquet of flowers angled in his own - Vergil can't seem to reach any plausible conclusion regarding their destination. And on top of all of _ that _ , it's all the _ more _ confusing when he notices they're moving further and further from what now passes as Fortuna's city center. The buildings are becoming sparse, less lived in, and more desolate and abandoned. But even without those telltale signs, it's clear that this sector is unused by the populace from the sheer lack of maintenance alone - there are weeds sprouting up from within cracks on the tarmac roads, and even more on the sidewalks. Vines crawl their way up the sides of buildings, and even encroach through broken windows. Trees and shrubbery continue to grow unbidden, unhindered by the shears of man. Here, as certainly as time passes, nature reclaims what is hers.   
  
But it's a tranquil, beautiful sight, as opposed to something sad and, dare he think it, haunted. The pops of colour from small flowers, now in bloom are a welcome sight, contrasting the earthy tones of the rest of the city, and the breeze carries the aroma of something that is distinctly woody and natural. He doesn't dislike it. Quite the contrary. But Vergil has to remind himself that they are here to see someone, and that makes him curious once more. Surely nobody can be _ living _ out here? That's ludicrous.   
  
It's when they reach the very edge of this unused section of town, an open meadow bordering the woodlands, that Nero slows his pace, making Vergil follow his lead. Whatever this field was used for in the past, it's now enclosed by a crudely constructed fence, and within its borders are countless stone graves. They're nothing elaborate, as typical as headstones can possibly be, but there are many, forming neat rows that span the entire area. To Vergil's surprise, there are other people present, tending to what he presumes are their own loved ones, murmuring softly amongst themselves with their heads bowed low in prayer, but the two newcomers are paid no mind, even as they approach the gate to the cemetery. Vergil casts a wary glance towards his son, but Nero only smiles sadly.   
  
"This is it." He hefts the box cradled in his arms, nudging the gate open with his hip, and holding it open for his father. "This is the graveyard we made for everybody lost in the Savior incident seven years ago today." Angling his head down. Nero brushes a tickle in his nose away with the crook of his arm. Was there even really a tickle there, or is that just his nervous tic at play? Sometimes he can't really tell. "We lost a lot more than this, and even more fled the city after, but we didn't really have the resources to get an accurate count, so we did what we could."   
  
A brief silence as Vergil processes this, eyes scanning the array of graves. "And the one you wanted me to meet?"   
  
Nero lowers his gaze, and then nods towards the front of the cemetery. Sitting alone at the end of the beaten path that splits the area into two, is one single grave, slightly larger, slightly more opulent than the rest. "That's him up there."   
  
Vergil had known the moment they stopped at this memorial that the one they were coming to see was no longer of this world - the supplies and flowers cradled in his right arm finally making sense - but there's a sad finality in hearing it said out loud. One that even he can feel stirring in his chest, spurred forth by the quaint, yet forlorn air that blankets the area. It's so picturesque, with how the trees cast their gentle shadows, and the faint rustle of dried leaves that sweep the ground, that it's hard _ not _ to get swept up by the air of nostalgia.   
  
As they make their way down the dirt path, Nero nods his head in greeting at those who raise their heads at him, and it doesn't escape Vergil's notice that all of them do. The reverence of Nero carried out by most of Fortuna is unmistakable, making pride bloom within his chest. He'd always respected Nero, even when he was V. No… perhaps _ especially _ when he was V, and there is warmth inside him at the notion that Nero's kindness extends to everybody he comes into contact with, as opposed to only those he cares for. Kindness is not circumstantial to Nero, what he gives, he does so freely to all who deserve it.   
  
For the first time, Vergil thinks he understands that glint of pride in Sparda's eyes when his twin sons first took up their practice swords. It's such an all encompassing feeling - to want only the best for your own kin, and this, he decides, is leagues better than any insatiable desire for power. What a fool he was.   
  
As they finally near their destination, the difference between this particular headstone, and all of the others becomes apparent. Not only is it larger, but it also seems to have been made with a sort of careful and thorough attentiveness that implies status. Not enough to have a grand memorial, swathed in opulence and grandeur, but enough that it stands out from the rest. Though it's dusty, covered in a year's worth of dirt and leaves, the words carved into the front of it remain legible.   
  


> In Memory of Credo
> 
> The Angel who fell from Grace, yet rose once more upon a single Wing.  
May the Proud Blade find his Peace in the World he was Promised.

  
  
Underneath the engraved message is a single sword, similar in design to the Red Queen, crossed over what appears to be one feathered angel wing. None of it means much to Vergil of course, but whoever this man is, he seems to be important to Nero, and if that's the case, then Vergil will put the effort into learning why. Isn't that why he was brought here today?   
  
"Heya Credo," Nero's greeting is wistful, sad, nostalgic, all of those things somehow packed into two simple words. He kneels down before the headstone, placing the box he was holding onto the ground. "It's been another year, huh? Kyrie couldn't make it this year, but I brought someone else along today." It's then that Nero pivots on his haunches to regard Vergil, who follows his lead, kneeling down on one knee before the stone. He says nothing, simply watching Nero's expressions sift through all the emotions he'd just heard in his voice. As a stranger to this man, what _ can _ he say?   
  
"So! Introductions. Credo, this is Vergil. He's…" Once again, his sentence tapers off into an uncertain silence, finding it difficult to say the one word that could potentially bridge the gap in their rocky relationship. Even Vergil finds himself holding his breath, his arm tightening around the flowers in his hold. "...my father."   
  
There's no fanfare when the word, the title, the _ honour _ slips from Nero's lips, just the sound of the gentle breeze in the trees, and the quiet whispers of the other citizens in the graveyard. The world spins on as normal, paying the quiet epiphany no heed. As it should too, because that's precisely what it's supposed to be, and all that it _ needs _ to be. No hesitance, no reluctance. Easy and free, simple and clean.   
  
Normal.   
  
But even so, the unseen tension in the air begins to crack, forced open and apart the longer the word hangs in between them. Vergil can feel his lips twist into a faint smile, inwardly marvelling at how such a small gesture can spark joy, and he wonders if this too, is all part of being a parent. Did Sparda feel the same way, gazing upon his twin boys in their bassinet? Although the glory of Sparda's legacy largely falls upon Dante's shoulders, Vergil feels closer to their father than he ever has before, and that, in its own right, makes him hold his chin up just a little higher.   
  
"He's a bit clumsy. Was pretty busy for a long while, so he couldn't be around..." Nero's tone takes on a mildly airy quality as he bites back a laugh, finding comfort in poking a little harmless fun. Oddly enough, Vergil doesn't mind it. "But I know he's trying. So I wanna try too."   
  
He glances back up at Vergil with the same wistful, perhaps even hopeful smile on his face.   
  
"Pops, this is Credo, Kyrie's older brother. Kind of mine too, I guess, but he was more like a father figure to me after their parents died." Nero works as he talks, reaching into the box he was holding for a cloth so he can begin dusting a year's build up of dirt off the grave. "I was adopted by their family when I was a couple years old, and I've been with them ever since. I mostly hung out with Kyrie, but Credo? He was always there for me. Kept idiots in line whenever they came around to give me shit. Protected me. Taught me how to fight."   
  
There's a fondness in his voice, even as he works the dirt out from inside the embossed text. Nero shuffles on his haunches, scooting a little closer to the headstone to get a better angle.   
  
"He taught me about family too. About how it's important to protect each other. That just because we suffer loss, it doesn't mean it's the end. We keep fighting because we always have something to protect, and we're stronger because of it. Hell, if it wasn't for him, I don't know where I'd be now." His hand slows, and from out the corner of Vergil's eye, he can see Nero's head lower. "Everybody keeps saying they owe me for saving Fortuna, but without Credo… I'm not sure I'd have wanted to, you know?"   
  
Vergil contemplates this quietly. This Credo sounds like he was quite the character - and going by the old photos of a previously unnamed and unknown man around the orphanage, specifically one that Kyrie keeps on the mantle that Vergil occasionally catches her staring at - he seemed strong too. Proud. All favourable qualities in a person. Vergil lifts a hand to sweep it across the top of the headstone, dislodging several dried up leaves and sticks that had fallen from the trees above. Though it's obscured, Nero smiles at the effort. "He sounds like he was a good man."   
  
"He was." Nero's affirmation is swift, and spoken without any hesitance. "He rose up the ranks of the Order as we all got older, was pretty much second in command, but he never lost sight of what was really important. The second he found out Kyrie was being used as leverage, he turned his back on his loyalty and tried to save me. I wasn't strong enough to protect him then, but his memory gives me the strength to save others. And maybe most important of all...   
  
"It let me save you and Dante. On top of the Qliphoth. That's probably the greatest gift Credo gave me."   
  
For a few heart rending seconds, Vergil's hand goes completely still as he sucks in a short breath, chest constricting in a peculiar way. That single day remains among the most poignant of his memories, standing out amidst a torrent of nightmares (if they can still be called such) and things better left in the past. Though he doesn't particularly have a range to choose from, that day stands out as one of his favourites in hindsight, because that was the day he found out that the only person who gave him the time of day as V, a total stranger, the only one who seemed to even _ care _ , was his son. Even now, he finds it hard to believe - a coincidence so improbable and unbelievable, that the odds of everything - his conception, his birth, his meeting Dante, his morals falling in place _ just so _ \- aligning so perfectly had to border on astronomical. Yet here they stand. Vergil lets his hand drop onto the cool stone of the grave before him, feeling an odd sort of solidarity with the man for whom this grave was made, even in spite of the fact they never have, and never _ will _ , meet. They're both clumsy, both were perhaps a little misguided in their efforts and their lives, but they're tethered to the same person for the same reason - their respect for Nero is unmistakable. In this way, Vergil thinks he understands Credo rather well.   
  
"Sorry--" A nervous laughter cuts through the air as Nero shakes his head. "I didn't really mean for this to turn into anything weird. I guess I just… wanted to give you a little more insight into me?" He busies himself with pulling up weeds that have sprouted at the base of the grave, carelessly tossing them aside after he uproots them. "Ever since you gave me your book, I've been thinking of how I could return the favour, you know? But something like this is all I got."   
  
"It's enough," Vergil gently reassures, because the notion of not being enough, of just falling short is something he's intimately familiar with, "I'm grateful you thought to share this with me."   
  
The ready admission has Nero glancing over at his father again with a crooked smile on his face. He knows that Vergil doesn't waste words - he wouldn't say anything if he didn't think he had a point he had to make. Nero turns back to Credo's grave, folding the rag over in his hands to give the face of it one last sweep, and then he pulls back, satisfied with his work at least for another year. And ever vigilant, Vergil takes this unspoken cue, kneeling forward to lay the bouquet in his arms in front of the grave before he rises to his feet with his son. But it seems that Nero isn't quite finished. He stoops over and produces three more items from the box he was carrying - cans of beer - and holds one out to Vergil, who blinks owlishly down at it. Beer isn't his choice of beverage (alcohol, even in minute quantities tends to knock him out), least of all cheap beer, but he takes the can from Nero nonetheless. He must have looked quite concerned, because Nero laughs.   
  
"I made sure to pick up light beer. Dante told me you can't really handle a drink, and I didn't want you passing out here." He means it in jest, falling into the comfortable banter he so regularly does with his uncle, but on Vergil's end, he is rigid, glancing off to the side to stare, annoyed - but perhaps only theatrically - into empty space.   
  
"I'll be sure to give him my regards later," he murmurs to the wind.   
  
By which he means he will hurl himself at Dante without mercy the very second he sees him.   
  
The can in his hand only carries a faint chill by this point in the day, the condensation dotting the inside of his glove, but he pulls the tab and opens the can when Nero does, fully intending to share a drink with his son and his mentor, alcohol content be damned. Although part of him really does wish to share this moment with Nero, he can't deny that he's also doing this to prove a point to Dante.   
  
"You would've liked Credo, I'm sure." Nero sets the can down atop the newly cleaned headstone, leaving it in offer for the departed. "You're both serious. Both devoted. Focused." He chuckles again, this time rather derisively. "Both have a noisy ass relative."   
  
That makes Vergil smile too.   
  
"And you both would've given Dante so much shit. It would've been great, I'm not gonna lie." Nero lets the sentence hang in the air, breathing in a lungful of oak and the sweetness of flowers and the general natural scent of Fortuna. It relieves his tensions, eases the pressure, softens the cadence of his voice. "But I don't mind how things are now. I've got Kyrie. I've got the kids. I've got Dante. Nico's okay too, I guess. And now I get to have a drink with my old man."   
  
When Nero tilts his can of beer towards Vergil, he meets the green eyes of his flesh and blood and returns the gesture, the hollow clink of their cans coming together filling the space between them.

**Author's Note:**

> **BONUS**
> 
> The sun is beginning to sink into the horizon when the two arrive back at the orphanage, and awaiting them in the garage with his arms folded across his chest is Dante. His head snaps up when he hears them approach (though to his credit, he heard them coming from two blocks away), smiling easily and spreading his hands wide.
> 
> "Heya you two, welcome back. Hope it was--" his words trail off into a worried silence, "Verge…?"
> 
> Nero says nothing as Vergil picks up his pace, striding across the garage with purpose to lift his foot and plant his heel right into his twin's gut. Not hard enough to hurt, but still enough to make him double over, lowering his head so that it perfectly sits within range. Vergil seamlessly winds one arm around Dante's neck and lets gravity do the rest, pummelling the face of his twin right into the oily concrete of the garage.
> 
> "Over a can of light beer. The madman," Nero muses to himself aloud. For someone who claimed to be unfamiliar with close range melee, Vergil picked up the intricacies of the DDT rather quickly.
> 
> One does not reveal the secrets of a Son of Sparda so freely and expect to live without consequences.


End file.
